


if you're a ghost (i want you to haunt my sleep)

by sansuishi



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bruce/Natasha if you squint, Clothed Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post CA: TWS, Present Tense, WIP, mentions of movie related torture, tags might be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansuishi/pseuds/sansuishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insomnia and coffee addiction is probably the worst combo he has ever had, ever since asthma and a heart condition. Steve stays up at night more than he sleeps, as if expecting for some sort of event to happen, and ends up retreating to bed when the sun is already up and warming.<br/>Until the event does happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. turning point

**Author's Note:**

> this work is unfinished and unbeta'd (unless specified otherwise), though i read it a thousand times over. i think there will be three or four chapters, as all of my multichapter works. there will be no smut (penetration sex, at least) too, but i rated it as mature in case things flow into a little more intimate scenario between them but certainly there will be no actual sex. enjoy!

Sleep flows unsteadily through his nights, like rain in summer days, as it shifts between big droplets against the windowpane and a bone freezing drizzle. Steve sometimes sleeps for twelve hours without as much as moving a muscle, sometimes spends the night up reading an old book, listening to music, or researching in the portable computer Stark gifted him. There is a lot he is yet to learn about, and the internet provides him with plenty of hours of entertainment and information in nights where he fails to shut his mind off, to drift off and fall asleep. He reads articles of old newspapers and ebooks rather than information posted by anonymous users. Wikipedia is amazing too, and he still marvels over how easily one could learn now, with only a computer with internet connection and a handful of hours to spend. Technology is welcomed, and Steve constantly wonders about how life would have been a hundred times easier if he had that much comfort when he was still a scrawny kid. There are devices in the kitchen to make cooking easier (and safer), the wide living room is packed with movement sensors so the lights turn on or off automatically when someone is around or not, sound devices and faint lights flashing in relaxing patterns in his bedroom that help him sleep better. Overall, he loves all of it, though sometimes he trudges through technology (he managed drop his touchscreen phone and break it a few hours after getting it from Natasha) but it's still helpful, and Steve is leaning to be more careful. Everything feels more fragile these days.

The present night, he is sitting at his sofa, a steaming cup of coffee at hand while a snow storm rages cold and ruthless outside. His laptop is closed over his thighs, and his sketchbook open over it. The storm apparently glitches his internet connection but he's not at all bothered by it, instead, Steve takes his time to draw. He settles the coffee cup down over the phone table, and sketches what he sees through the wall-sized window in that angle. The street lamps, the tiny points of snow crossing its yellow glow; the shadow of buildings in the distance, the faint little lights of the one nearer; the puffed mass of dark clouds covering the night sky; the streets mostly deserted, save for a car or two, speeding its way home. Steve yawns, but continues to sketch. Brooklyn has changed a lot, none of the shops he used to go to exist anymore, and the friends and enemies he used to have around are either deceased or too far from reality, lost inside their minds. It makes him feel lonely when he thinks like that, even if he has friends now too, and his /house/ talks to him, for Christ's sake. Steve avoids thinking of life itself, his life, the sour twists it turned and everything he has lost. Everyone that went away before he could say good bye.

When he picks up his coffee cup again, it is already cold. The sketch is pretty, Steve signs it with his initials at the bottom left and closes the book silently. It's exactly twelve minutes past three am, and Steve glances around his living room, as he had just waken up there. Sometimes it happens, he feels shocked by this reality all the same as he did when he first woke up in the 21st century, surrounded by giant and flashing outdoors, impossibly wide streets and buildings so tall he couldn’t see its end. It lasts for a few moments, he feels overwhelmed and tiny but eventually the thrill dies down. Tonight, he shakes it off after downing his cup of tepid coffee and pulling a face at it. Horrible.

Steve is already retreating to his bedroom, sketchbook and computer under his arm when he hears it, the sound of the elevator door opening in his floor. There are only two apartments per floor in this building, and Steve feels his gut twisting. His neighbors are out in honeymoon. With his free hand, he reaches out for his phone inside his pocket and checks for any messages of Nat or Sam, telling him they'd stop by as they do sometimes. No one else really comes by but the two of them and never without warning him first. There are no notifications in his lock screen, and Steve calmly sets the sketchbook and computer down at the sofa, clearing his ears in attempt to hear more, to discern what is happening, though he hears no steps, no voices. Just the low humming of electronics on and his breath. It takes what seems like forever until he moves, and he does so uncertainly, taking long steps towards the door, twisting the locks open soundly and then turning the doorknob in his palm.

What his eyes see is far from what his mind manages to process. He almost stumbles backwards as a dark clothed figure surges in his vision field, contrasting bluntly with the soft, cream colored carpets of the small hall between his and the neighbors’ doorway; the glass table with a vase of lilies; the quietude of his thoughts so far that evening. Steve blinks, because the contrast is sharp enough to make him wonder if he was dreaming. The figure remains unmoving, sitting just beside the elevator door. His head hangs low, dark and damp chestnut hair shadows his face, the silver glint of a metal arm breaks the solid mass of black the man is. There is silence, for a long while, and Steve is halfway tempted to run to the man but his muscles won't obey his heart’s impulse.

The man lifts his head. There is blood in the corner of his pale lips, his eyes are void and hopeful at the same time, a tiny drop of dry blood caught in his chin before it could fall. He looks straight at Steve, not anywhere else, and his hand moves, the melted snowflakes turned into droplets of water caught between the metal plates reflecting light as he reaches out for Steve, who’s still at his doorway, petrified. “I need repair.”

XXXXXX

Eventually, Steve did move and now the man was sitting in his sofa, head hanging low again. He used the word repair, but it's not the metal arm that was damaged, the damage is the ugly bullet hole in his right shoulder, bleeding sluggishly as Steve ambles around the house to find a first aid kit, that will be used as an only aid kit. The man refuses to go to a hospital, and Steve knows better than insisting. There are tweezers, a curved needle and nylon thread set aside on his phone table, where his tepid mug of coffee was sitting at before, and Steve purses his lips worriedly at the man. He seems too pale. “You should… Why don't you… Can you take your vest off, so I can look at it?” He asks, careful in his words and tone.

The man stares back, and Steve doesn’t know, for the slightest moment, if he had been awake or not before the request hit his ears. His eyes are almost opaque, gaze distant, and he almost shrugs before the pain lashes on his damaged shoulder. Instead, he winces. Steve understands, and gets something else inside the first aid kit, a pair of scissors. He approaches the man warily, his own hands trembling only slightly but the man’s grey eyes caught it before he can hide. “What do you fear?” He speaks for the first time ever since they entered the apartment, voice rough and low.

Nothing, Steve wants to respond. The feeling is not fear or anything near it, it's a painful twist at his stomach that he cannot name, as much as he tries. He's not afraid of Bucky hurting him, for the love of God, he had never been afraid of anyone hurting him, let alone Bucky. There is no fear of hurting Bucky in him as well, because he knows he's helping, though it will hurt like hell fire to pull the bullet out. It's not a vital spot, so the fact Bucky won't go to a hospital is not really concerning him, he's perfectly capable of stanching the blood flow and stitching the sound closed after the bullet is out. There is nothing to be afraid of, but Steve's hands are still shaking and the deep grey eyes demand an answer of him. “I'm just nervous.” He breathes, not moving his gaze from the scissors as they cut through the dark fabric of Bucky's clothes. It's not a lie, he is nervous and plenty, so he hopes it's enough answer for now.

“Why,” the man insists, and Steve looks up. “If it's just repairing?” His eyes aren't hard as he asks, rather, he looks especially tame with his naked torso covered in little bruises and cuts. It's curious, to say the least, that Steve notices a light fondness in his voice, when there is no intention, or not even space for fondness at the moment. Fondness is the last feeling he should identify in the voice of a man who took a point-blank shot in his only good shoulder but it is definitely there. And it remains even when Steve –murmuring he's sorry a dozen times- plunges the tweezers inside the wound to pull the bullet out.

The man barely flinches at it. His lips stretch lightly in a soft grimace, a reaction far more consistent to an injection than tweezers inside a recent gunshot wound. He looks at Steve, and Steve feels as if he was slapped across the face, a shock that paralyzes him instantly. There is an all too familiar gleam in the man’s eyes, that means both an apology and a reassurance he will be alright. The rest of him doesn't move, and the music of humming machinery and uneven breaths resumes echoing through Steve's otherwise calm living room. “Thank you.” The man says, and Steve clings to that fondness in his voice for a lifeline to speak too, to open his mouth because /now/ he feels a strange fear gripping him, as if the man will disappear into thin air if he falters. So he doesn't.

“How did you get shot,” Steve doesn't finish his sentence, because he's not sure how the name in the tip of his tongue will sound to the man’s ears. He's threading carefully, so very carefully and he's been searching for him for months (over a year, Natasha would say, her brows knitting in both disapproval and concern) and it's unbelievable Bucky is sitting at his living room right now, looking at him the same way he used to when Steve patched his bloodied knuckles. Both _I'm sorry_ and _it'll be fine, Steve, s’just a bruise_. He doesn't want to risk breaking this frail, too frail bond just now and Bucky understands the question, even if the sentence didn't exactly sound like one. Steve sees his eyes turning away, somewhere else in the living room and he pulls his lips up again. Thinking. He's thinking and Steve urges him on. “You know how to dodge bullets better than anyone I've seen. How did that happen?” Steve murmurs and Bucky stops pulling his lips to sigh.

There is another moment of silence and Steve doesn't know how to break it, not quite. He runs one hand through his hair, and it's almost four am now but he doesn't feel sleep approaching just yet. Bucky doesn't answer him too, for a long while, until he sighs again and his gaze is pulled from the random spot it had been fixed to. “It was aimed at you,” he says, and Steve looks as if he had been kicked in the gut. “I was following the shooter.” He pauses, and Steve feels something twisting inside him. Something painful and bitter. “He's dead now.” The curt sentences are said in a calm voice, tone clear. He's reporting. Steve feels a shiver down his spine.

“Look, you can't—Were you watching me?” Steve asks, and his tone edges desperation. How did he even know about the shooter, how did the sound of a gun firing (or two?) escape him completely, how does he know where Steve lives? He wants to ask, wants his doubts to be put down because it's horrible for someone called a leader to know so little about something so important. He feels almost shredded when Bucky nods to his question, shortly, obediently. “Why were you watching me?” Steve realizes, that if he had added the name to the end of the sentence, it would have sounded stupid. It's what Bucky does, watch out for him, saves his skin for all he knows. He doesn't demand an answer by his tone, and Bucky doesn't give him one for another while. It's hard for him to answer to these questions too, he thinks, he doesn't immediately report.

“I don't know.” The man says, and hears Steve release a breath. He wants to tell Steve he exposes himself too much, with these open windows and a very predictable routine, the lonely runs in the wee hours of morning, while it's still dark but he says none of that. A good part of him has no idea why he's keeping surveillance, why he didn't kill Steve himself when he was ordered to, why his one good shoulder was bleeding from a bullet aimed right at Steve's head as he sketched by his window. He doesn't know, and doesn't exactly matter to him. In his training, there is no space for explanations, for reasoning, he's not used with formulating answers on his own, about something he doesn’t know.

Steve stitches his arm silently. His questions are either set aside or buried down, because he remains quiet for the longest time, closing the bullet hole on Bucky's shoulder. But his mind is spinning, he has to focus extra hard to keep his hands from trembling and when he sets the needle and thread aside, when Bucky's arm is stitched and bandaged he expects him to leave as silently and suddenly as he arrived. Steve wants to beg him to stay, but his rational side tells him there will be no use, Bucky won't stay, even if he asks him on his knees.

And he might. Jesus, he might.

“Thank you.” Bucky says, and Steve wants to delve into the sound of his voice, wants to shield him from every harm, from everyone that has hurt him for so long. He feels helpless, so damn helpless and all he can do is reach out for Bucky's hand, touch it gently. There is no pressure, he doesn't trap Bucky's hand with his, he simply rests it there, and looks at him as if the world is collapsing and they will be both dead in a minute. “It's possible that they have trackers wired up in here.” Bucky whispers and Steve almost misses it over the intense moment they have simply staring into each other's eyes. He lifts the metal arm, and Steve swallows. It makes sense, and it's probably true. HYDRA wouldn't leave their best weapon to walk around freely, without a way to pull it back, and he can't think of anything to do about it immediately. He doesn't even imagine how a tracker looks like.

“Don't leave,” Steve finally pleads, when Bucky stands from the sofa, and it's like a cold breath of wind hurled between them. “You don't have to leave yet,” He corrects himself, not wanting to sound commanding. “Take a shower, eat something and give your arm some time to get better. Then… You can go if you want.” There is so much wrong with his wording of that damn plea, and Steve wants to kick himself for it, for not being more careful with what he said and the way he said it but Bucky doesn't seem affected. His posture doesn't shift, his eyes don't become sharp and his lips are still relaxed.

“I'm not safe.” Bucky whispers, and it's like they are sharing a secret, like someone can hear them. Steve nods, then points at the bandages on Bucky's shoulder with a half, defeated smile.

“Neither am I.”

XXXXXX

The heater is on, as had been since November knocked in. It's not like he /needs/ the heater on because the apartment isolates both the cold and the heat outside, and he no longer has one bitch of an asthma to close his throat whenever a cold breeze brushes past him. The heater is in simply for comfort, because Stark shoved an energy generator in his laundry for the heater so it is safer and more economic than usual heating systems. Steve prefers the warmth to cold, though he likes the fact he can spend some time out in the snow without getting a severe pneumonia. Seeing Tony’s face when he smears snow all over his neatly brushed hair is funny too. Overall, he finds more comfort with a blanket tugged up on his lap and the heater on, a cup of coffee at hand.

And the sound of shower on, right now.

He separated clothes for Bucky, left them right upon the bed in the guest’s room and retreated to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. The sun is beginning to spark at the horizon now, its light still faint and cold, barely noticeable over the now closed blinds of the wall-sized window of his living room. Steve cooked a dozen eggs, toasted some bread and sliced a full box of tiny tomatoes to go with it, left it all settled over the table for when Bucky leaves the shower and opened his laptop over his stretched legs. He attempts to seem natural, and he was asked not to tell anyone else Bucky is here but he itches to send Stark a message, ask him for a favor. He also wants to tell Natasha, because she always tells him to let her now in case Bucky shows up somehow, even if it's a message, a glimpse, something small. She helps him a lot, either by shaking some sense into him when he starts to sound too matter of fact about his life or by just keeping him company when he's low, pulling him by the hair a little too harshly so he can rest his head against the tight muscle of her thighs. You need someone to pull you by the hair sometimes, she says, and there is the subtlest pull of a smile in the corner of her lips.

When the shower turns off, Steve realizes he had been simply staring at his computer’s screen for the longest time, lost in thought, and closes the lid of the laptop quickly before setting it aside. His coffee is still warm when he drinks it and he turns his head to the bathroom in the end of the hallway. Bucky surges with the towel around his waist, holding it in place with his metal hand, the other limp at his side. His hair is wet again, but now pushed away from his face and Steve can see a thin smoke exhaling from his body, disappearing into the warm air of the apartment.

As hot as the shower was, he shouldn't be steaming like that. Maybe it's the arm.

The bandages are wet too and Steve picks up the first aid kit he didn't bother to put away, before following Bucky into the guest bedroom. He cuts the gauze in proper sizes (unnecessary) while Bucky strips off the towel and dresses. It's a pair of gray sweatpants, the thin fabric kind, that Steve usually uses to run and a long sleeved black shirt. Bucky discards the pair of socks over the pillow and doesn't bother to tie the small laces in the front of the sweatpants. His torso is bare for now, and he sits beside Steve on the bed obediently, waiting for the bandages to be changed.

They don't talk, for most of it. He can feel Steve's eyes almost blasting a hole through his skull but he's quiet, because speaking isn't something he's quite used to do. He's used to reporting, and Steve's not really asking for a report now, so he keeps quiet, looking at his hands, at the carpet under his feet, the clock on the wall. It's daylight, he should be miles away from here and he doesn't want to move. Everything throbs in a dull ache, including his head, though there was a great improvement after the shower. Trained as a weapon he might have been, but most of him is still very human. He needs rest. His arm is dried and shoulder bandaged up when he crawls into the soft pillows, and Steve covers him, he hears Steve sigh as he picks the first aid kit and checks if the windows are closed. He wishes Bucky to sleep well and leaves silently, the carpeted floor swallowing the sound of his steps down the hallway. Bucky pays no attention to the locked window, the closed door or the fact he has left his weapons somewhere that is not within his reach. The warmth of the blanket upon him, teamed with the soft mattress under his limbs is enough to pull him into sleep.


	2. rough sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve waits. And while he waits, he draws Bucky by memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to soft and sweet fluffiness a little bit of hot action between the boys on Stevie's sofa. i hope you enjoy!

Bucky wakes up slowly, for the first time in a long while. For the first time, ever since his memory reaches, he can open his eyes without startle, blink them until he realizes he's awake, and then he can linger in bed for a while. There's a bed. There's no one barking orders for him in Russian, no one ushering him up from another restless bunch of hours in the floor of his cell, no alarms sounding above his head while it's still dark out. A faint yellow glow pours through the closed blinds, Bucky observes the room he's in with a bit of silent awe. He can tell it's day, because there is a window. There is also desk on the wall across the bed, a closet door nearby the entryway, and a small dresser nearby the window. The bed he's in is soft, the sheets and duvet smell like lavender and freshly washed clothes and he still feels warm, even if he notices he completely forgot to put on the shirt Steve gave him.

Steve.

The thought of Steve makes him open his eyes more. He remembers the image of the blond man telling him he doesn't have to go yet, telling him he can stay, offering him so much he didn't have for so long so easily, all within reach. All he had to do was accept it. He thinks of Steve, what he knows of Steve and it's not much but it's enough for now since Steve is kind, kinder than Bucky had ever expected anyone to be with him. He remembers Steve from the helicarrier, remembers a deep red stain in his uniform, in front of his stomach and his face increasingly pale. Bucky remembers more, the more he thinks and he remembers Steve abandoning his shield. His mind was dazed from the last, all too recent wipe then, from the ice, but there was something telling him not to do it. _Don’t snap his neck. You can't._ _Don't do it. Don't let him drown, he's unconscious. Pull him out of the water._ The voice seemed to scream in hismind, and he did what he was primarily trained to do, before anything else, what he was painfully taught to do. He obeyed. Without knowing where the screaming voice came from.

Perhaps it was the ghost of him, of the man he was, of James.

Bucky shakes the thought away from his system by splashing cool water over his face, the bathroom door locked behind him. There is silence, he wonders if Steve is home or not and if no one attempted to shoot him again. He dries hurriedly, and leaves the bathroom, the carpet along the hallway barely swallowing the sound of his hard steps. Steve is home, after all, distracted fussing with something at the kitchen and turns when Bucky's bare feet reach the neatly polished linoleum of the living room. There's a white powder in his arms and he smiles at Bucky when he decides to step into the kitchen, finding the wide, black and white tilled walls of the room comforting. Steve smiles at him, and he looks happy. Bucky peeks at the stove, and smells something sweet.

“I'm making pancakes.” Steve tells him, and Bucky leans against a piece of furniture nearby to watch him, still silent. “How's your shoulder?” There is a pile of pancakes over a porcelain plate, with golden details painted on it and Steve adds another layer to the stack. Bucky attempts to smile back, and nods. “’S good.” He responds, not so stiff. He lets his voice sound normal, not dry. It feels calm inside of him, the tiles in the kitchen, the smell of something warm being prepared for him, Steve's smile. “Do you need help?” He asks and Steve looks at him all the more fondly, then nods. He points at the machine Bucky is leaning against. “Take the mugs out and set the table. I'll join you in a second.”

They ate quietly, Steve starting small chats about food, about what he has been doing lately, asking if he had slept well. Bucky chats in response, through mouthfuls of pancake and large gulps of coffee. He hadn't realized how starved he was until that moment, until he took the first bite of the pile of pancakes. Steve watches him eat while eating too, and when the conversation cease, the silence isn't uncomfortable. There is a tense nerve tugging at Steve's neck, Bucky sees it from under his white shirt, but doesn't ask. Steve is not breaching his space, and the least he can do is to return the kindness.

Once they finish eating, Bucky asks for his equipment and Steve points a transparent box siting beside his sofa. He looks away, tucking the dirty plates and mugs inside the dishwasher while Bucky undresses from his clothes and get into his gears again. His bright smile is gone, as is the tense nerve pulling at his shoulder, but there is a line between his brows. “I'll come back.” Bucky murmurs, to assure him, and Steve smiles in return. It's not bright. It's small, and sad.

“Okay, Buck.”

XXXXXX

It gets colder and colder along the day, and Steve finds himself postponing more than one task. He doesn't run that day, or bothers to wash the dishes from breakfast (or lunch), doesn't open the blinds and windows like Bucky told him to. Instead, he reads, goes through his old sketchbooks and listens to the radio. The apartment is too quiet, and Steve feels uneasy, like there is something thumping inside of his mind constantly, leaving him restless. For most of the afternoon, Steve begins to wonder if Bucky is really coming back, since he took all of his weapons and equipment, the thought lingering above his head like a storm cloud, following him relentlessly for hours. It's almost night when he decides that he has no choice but trusting Bucky, but waiting for him to come, and then doubt melts into pure and painful anxiety. Steve waits, and the wait kills him because as much as Bucky might arrive at any minute, he might also not.

The sketch he made the day before is gently flipped away and he gets a blank sheet of paper. His art supplies are fancy now (copyright is something that gives him money nowadays, and though Steve doesn't exactly like it, it's still better than bonds selling) and Steve is utterly careful with his watercolor sets, his collection of charcoal, neatly cleaned brushes and small pots of acrylic paint. He draws by memory, this time, though he prefers drawing what he sees. The charcoal scraps gently against the paper, making a soft noise that calms him somehow, and the lines begin to roughly look like a face. The jaw is well marked, but not square, it's round and graceful, ending in a slightly protruding chin. The face is lightly turned to the right, and the left cheek shows a little more over the small smile over thin lips. Steve takes his time shading the left side of the face, drawing the small and round nose, the brows over deep eyes. He draws the cropped hair, falling messily over his forehead a little, then sketches a neck. Then, he begins to work of details, the bristle of beard in his neck and face, the ball and chain necklace, the slight lines of his cheeks that show deeply when he smiles more.

He takes a long time to finish the drawing, entire hours but it keeps his mind busy from anxiety, from thoughts about what would happen from that point on, if Bucky would come and go, if he would never come back after this time, if there was any possibility of making him stay. Steve once again thinks he would ask him to stay, would kneel and beg if he had to without pause and honestly, deeply sincere. There is no shame on that, on the feelings he has, and he does think of reasoning with Bucky into staying around, not disappearing and living in the shadows, even if the mere idea of creating such bonds could scare him away right now.

It should be strange, that Steve knows that face after so long, with his eyes closed and he feels a terrible ache in his chest. But he does not let his thoughts linger on it, if it's strange or not, it's simply how it is and how he figures it will always be. He knows every line, every angle and every inch of skin, committed to the depths of his mind and heart. Bucky smiles at him from the sketchbook, a smile Steve would know even through the darkest of the nights, he looks just the right amount of smug and happy, he looks… Proud. Steve likes to think that maybe, if he was fast enough, he could catch Bucky looking at him like that. The sketchbook is left open over his kitchen counter as he tends to his chores, managing to slip some of the tension off of his shoulders as he turns music on, some smooth jazz echoing through the walls of his apartment, filling his ears. It helps significantly, even when he looks at the drawing and a tight knot forms in his throat, almost enough to make him stop breathing.

When Bucky does return, Steve is sitting in front of the drawing he made, eating dinner quietly. It bothers him that the windows and blinds are shut but he winces when thinks of the drops of blood stain in his sofa, created when he extracted the bullet from Bucky's shoulder. Staring outside, to the cars passing by is usually comforting, soothes his mind enough to leave him numb to worries, to changes, to anxiety and insomnia. He cracks a yawn, finishes eating and looks around puzzled when a thin, cold wind hits his cheek. The heater was off now (with the windows shut and the heater on, his apartment was slowly becoming a furnace) but there was nothing open, where did that wind come from—

Steve pauses, and he knows it's strange, it's so strange that he's tense all over right now because he learned to keep cool still back in the army. He learned not to lose his calm, to stay focused but something about the last events leave him almost frightened. When he walks to the living room, Bucky is there, sitting at his windowsill, looking at him calmly. Steve could swear he even saw a small, tentative smile, so he smiles too. There's no space to say a word, to ask Bucky how the hell did he manage to sneak into his apartment through the window without making a single noise, if there is something wrong with him again, if he wants to have dinner. Steve is quiet as Bucky approaches him, firm and quick, with a dangerous grace that makes Steve awed. There is a cool hand in his jawline, and Bucky's eyes are bright now. Nothin like the opaque and distant gaze they had just the other night, now they're bright and clear, as he had seen the universe over the past hours.

“I will cross them off my list.” Bucky says, and it doesn't sound like reporting, because Steve didn't ask any questions. “I am taking them down. No matter how many, how much money or power they have. I will take them down, one by one.” He adds, each word carefully punctuated, and Steve just nods before Bucky's eyes leave his. He's staring at something behind Steve's shoulder, then back at Steve with a questioning look. “Does that repulse you? That I've spent the entirety of the day planning to kill?” Steve shakes his head no, licks his lips, prepares to answer worldly but a metal thumb over his lips silence his mouth and mind. He nearly goes slack. “Steve,” he says, and this time he is the one silenced. Steve pulls his hand away from his face, slow, then presses their foreheads together. Bucky’s breath smells both sweet and fresh, and it takes all of Steve's self restraint not to do it, not to kiss him, what is he thinking—

“I'm not repulsed. You're doing what you think it's right to do, you're taking bad people down, finding a way to stop them. Besides…” Steve sighs out a shaky breath, and he doesn't sound at all like the man he's painted as. He sounds tired, restless, timid. “’Till the end of the line, remember?” He doesn't notice his eyes had slipped shut the moment their foreheads touched, but he is very aware of Bucky's lips touching his own, then the bridge of his nose, then his closed eyelids. His breath picks up, and he feels blood rushing through his veins quickly, hotly, causing his body to stir. It's all he needs to let it loose, hold Bucky's jaw in his palms and bring him in for a kiss, slow and soft rather than demanding. Neither of them question it, the fact they are suddenly kissing, that it is strange because they never were like this before. There never was this fire before, this urge Steve sees and feels as he is pushed against his sofa, as Bucky hovers him with one knee between his legs.

They do not undress. The kisses are still slow, deep and messy with saliva but slow, and Steve breathes through small intakes of air and shaking sighs, their hands touching neck and hair, jawline, chest. They don't speak either, because their mouths are busy, and when they're not, there's nothing really in need to be said, not now. They lay down, and Steve thinks his entire body is bright pink underneath his clothes, he's burning and his hips keep moving before he controls it, Bucky's lips are on his neck and he is wracked by it, by the touch. Every bit of him feels over sensitive, he feels as if he's sinking into the ocean all over again, with his lungs aching for breath, and then Bucky brings him back with a single roll of hips. He feels it, through the layer of clothes, what they both want, their most primitive instincts beg to, and a small sound of ‘please’ leaves him before Bucky does it again, grinds their hips and it sends a sharp spark of pleasure up his spine, blanking his brain for a few seconds. Steve moves to hold for dear life at Bucky's waist, grab stripes and buckles of his vest while keeping his eyes wide open. He only lets them close partially when they kiss, let's out small moans that Bucky responds with another grinding of hips. They do not undress, but they rut against each other, the pressing kisses leaving Steve's lips red and swollen. Bucky touches his face, mostly, thumbs his cheek and strokes his lips when he's not kissing them, with his flesh hand, and Steve remembers the fondness in his voice the night before. Bucky remembers him, if not entirely, at least enough to do this for the first time.

Steve finds himself unable to word out anything coherent soon enough. It completely passes by him that he's still dressed, and that he’ll make one hell of a mess into his pants in a while, over the little grunting sounds echoing in his ear, the sound of Bucky's voice /whining/ his name lowly into his ear. He takes one hand through Bucky's fine, soft hair, caresses, and the thrust of his hips become uneven until he stills. Steve can tell by the crack in his rapid breathing, and the increasing warm wetness between their groins that Bucky's finished. They kiss again, and Steve forgets how to breathe, even the small intakes of breath when Bucky's cold metal hand sneaks inside his pants and strokes him swiftly through his orgasm. Steve is the one whining when he sees Bucky's pink tongue sweeping through the carefully molded plates of metal of his left hand, the right one still at Steve's face.

For the next hours, Steve cleans up a little with a wet towel while Bucky changes into something clean. They fall into bed easily, and Steve settles over Bucky's left arm, the whirrs of it turning out to be oddly calming. He inspects Bucky's shoulder, and sees the stitches on their way to heal, earning a clumsy and hard kiss in the corner of his mouth when he smiles at Bucky in relief. “I'm glad you're healing, Bucky.” He says, and Bucky doesn't reject the nickname. Steve falls asleep like that, earlier than he did all the previous days of the week, and harder than he could remember letting himself drift off. Bucky's chest is flush against his back and his flesh hand draws gentle patterns on Steve's hip. He sleeps, for once without missing Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably one more chapter and we're done. thank you for each one of you reading and commenting and leaving kudos, means a lot for this suffering author. ♡


	3. frostbite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes, Bucky's gone.

Steve dreams of the impact some times. While huddled up in his bed, tucked into the warm covers and deep asleep, he hears the ice cracking around him, feels the pull of the water engulfing the plane and dragging him down along. He feels the cold seeping into his bones, the heavy pounding of his heart as his lungs start to ache for breath. He sees the surroundings darkening more and more, sees bubbles of air escaping his mouth as he attempts to say something. Call for help. He cannot hear his own voice but he hears his thoughts, and there are so many of them it feels as if his entire life is passing by in front of his tired eyes. Steve thinks of his mom, about her kind smile despite of the clear exhaustion in her face after another busy day at the hospital; thinks of Peggy, who's the first girl that ever saw him for who he was, not what he became; thinks of Bucky, who'll probably welcome him into the gates of Heaven, he wants to believe so. At some point, he wakes up coated in sweat and terrified, his eyes scanning the room owlishly.

Bucky's gone. For a moment, Steve feels a tiny bit of panic gripping him, but forces himself to remain calm after several gulps of water from the bottle he left beside his bed.

He's not surprised by it, but it still saddens him, makes him frustrated. The team, his team, they take him for a leader; he's always been the kind of guy to take all fights on his account, to stand up and do something for those who needed; lately he's been saving the world from alien invasions, for God’s sake. It's unbearably frustrating that he has to sit back while Bucky ghosts in and out of his apartment through the window, harmed, possibly in danger but Steve knows better than to drag him in, force him to stay in sight. It would do Bucky far more harm than good, he doesn't need to be commanded any more than he has been. He needs to have an open door, somewhere he can come when he's hurt and tired, somewhere to be safe, somewhere to call home even if it it's not the same home from before. Bucky needs to think on his own, evaluate risks on his own, and make decisions for himself after being deprived of this right for so long. Steve would still be there, no matter what his day had consisted of, or how many trackers he had wired up his left arm, if not always would he have a good day. Steve would still be there, waiting and willing for him to come when he was ready to.

Steve rolls over his back, stares fully awake at the ceiling, then closes his eyes to the sound of the clock ticking. It's calming, at first, he manages to drop his worry about Bucky for a while until he opens his eyes again. He yawns, itches his ribs lazily and leaves the bed, to go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee. It's cold, coffee should help warm up while the heater breaks the icy air that seems to be wrapped around the apartment. Steve stills, seeing Bucky's equipment right where he left, over the sofa, and looks around the room quickly, in attempt to see him somewhere but there's no one. He goes to the kitchen, and it's empty. The bathroom door is open, it's empty. The guest room’s door is closed and Steve opens it with an unnecessary care, until he sees it empty too. Every damn room of the house is empty, and Steve has the idea of looking into the closets when he notices it. In the living room, there is a door to a balcony, where he placed a small sofa and a coffee table. Steve likes to sit there in warmer days, to watch the sunset and allow his mind to paint happy pictures of distant times, with people he loved while his fingers sketch something on a white sheet. At the moment, it's way to cold to be outside, and Steve feels a freezing shiver running down his spine when he realizes a small part of the curtain is stuck on the door, outside.

His throat instantly dries, even though he drank nearly an entire bottle of water just minutes ago, and Steve darts to throw it open. He lives in the 19th floor, during the winters it gets impossible to stay outside even bundled up, the wind cutting cold and he can only think of Bucky out there, staring down below at the street they walked through countless times back in the day, but looked nothing close to familiar now. Steve feels the bite of the winter night wind against his bed-warmed skin, and narrows his eyes at the dust of snowflakes being blown at his face. He quickly looks around, to find a small bundle across the balcony, shrunk, sitting on the floor. He could recognize Bucky anywhere, he supposes, but the shine of his left arm definitely make it easier. “Bucky?” He calls out before approaching, long and nervous strides, but Bucky doesn't move. His temple is pressed against his bent knees, his head slightly turned to the side. Steve sees his face awfully pale, his eyes once again distant and opaque, his thin lips with a tint of blue to them, trembling. Snow was caught in his hair, and Steve's eyes widen when he touches Bucky's right arm in attempt to shake him back into normal. He is freezing cold, and it crawls up Steve's hand where he touched. Steve uses a bit too much strength to get Bucky off the floor, get him back inside, even though he doesn't feel the slightest resistance. Bucky's even sort of slump, dazed, and Steve has him wrapped in three blankets, legs tucked up for warmth.

93.5, it's his temperature. Steve looks from the thermometer caught between his fingers to Bucky, and pushes his hair out of his face gently. “Buck, what were you doing outside?” He asks, his voice not demanding, not angry. It's worry, rather, that at some point of the night they were spending together Bucky regretted what happened, regretted coming back. Worry for Bucky still not seeing clearly that Steve is home, Steve is a friend and Steve won't hurt him. Bucky's voice sound small, and he's shivering in between sentences, his lip moving lightly as he speaks.

“I was going to- Hurt you. I woke up and my hand was ‘round your neck. Usually there's the ice- but now there's no more ice so I went out. Not to hurt- not to hurt you.”

Steve kisses his forehead, his nose, his still slightly blue lip. Tells him he doesn't have to worry, that no one will get hurt if it's just them because they love each other. He whispers the words to Bucky, reaching under the blanket for his metal hand, squeezing the fingers between his as Bucky drifts, closes his eyes and indulges to the warm feeling. Steve pulls away after a moment, checks Bucky's temperature again, and sighs when he notices no change.

He calls doctor Banner. Hell, it's probably three am, or four, he forgot to check, only the digital screen of the thermometer flashing in his mind. Banner picks the phone considerably quickly, but he sounds as if he had been asleep, or at least exhausted. Concern is also perfectly noticeable in his voice, and Steve hopes it will still be there when he knows who the call is about. “Steve? Something happened?”

Steve tells him, right from the sofa, while his fingers caress Bucky's hair gently, firmly, and Steve cracks a small smile when Bucky sighs. He explains about his temperature, and thankfully doesn't have to explain the reason of it being so low. From across the line, Banner is fumbling with clothes and then telling him to get Bucky into the bathtub with hot water, to help his body warm up better. The call ends with Banner telling him he will stop by soon, and although Steve is pretty sure his phone speaker is loud enough to be overheard, Bucky doesn't seem bothered at this point.

Steve lifts him from the sofa, and Bucky follows him through the house, their hands linked, to the wide bathroom, yellow light pouring from the decorated junction between walls and ceiling. While the bathtub fills, Steve helps Bucky out of the clothes, and he makes no mention of taking his hands from that skin, even if it feels all sorts of wrong. Bucky's pale now, where he used to be light tanned, his muscles a little bigger. There are long and thin scars on his back, seemingly carved by a blade, and Steve wants to kiss them until they heal. They match the scars on Bucky's inner thighs, and Bucky lets out a soft noise as Steve traces them, now under the warm water of the tub. He touches the burnt skin where metal is linked, and Bucky's arm whirrs to grasp his hand. Steve doesn't startle with the touch, and he shivers when their gazes cross, he sees a deep longing inside Bucky's beautiful blue eyes. Steve is still dressed, and the clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin when he gets into the tub, over Bucky, and their lips melt together. Steve is warm where Bucky is cold, and Bucky's flesh hand travels through the rippled muscles of Steve's shoulder blades. This time Steve does undress, and the tub overflows a little, wetting the floor.

They touch without restraint, without hurry, and Steve soon notices Bucky's lips are no longer a pale blue, but pink from their kissing. He doesn't let his thoughts linger, Bucky's eyes narrow when he grinds their hips together again, both metal and flesh hand moving to cup his ass, silent pleading for more. Steve no longer thinks that doctor Banner is about to arrive, that Bucky is probably in a still too fragile state to be doing this, and what are the implications of their actions. Not with Bucky letting the softest sounds of pleasure against his lips, as Steve takes them both in hand, stroking steadily, making the water surface break in quivering waves, splashing sounds. Bucky kisses him, licks the water from his shoulder, bites the sweetest bruises on his neck and chokes a slightly louder moan of his name when he comes, and it's all it takes for Steve to come too. The water is dirty around them, Steve blinks himself back to reality while Bucky strokes his hair, the back of his neck. He looks tired, half asleep, and Steve gets out of the water, toweling them both in between stolen kisses.

Bucky's comfortable in the sofa again, dressed in warm clothes and wrapped in blankets by the time Banner arrives, and he doesn't come alone. Natasha strides into the apartment with the same confidence as always, and Steve clamps his mouth shut instead of warning her the amount of people suddenly surrounding Bucky could lead to a bad situation. She glances at him once, as if she knows he wouldn't have called if Bucky wasn't almost freezing outside, he would have kept him hidden, a secret. Steve doesn't argue on it for a second, it's true. Bucky doesn't need exposure, now he finally felt it was safe enough to approach. Still, Natasha looks the slightest bit hurt when she looks at him, and she's quiet. Bucky is asleep but he blinks his eyes open lazily when Banner takes his temperature. 97.0, Banner tells him, a small, tentative smile on his lips, which Bucky returns with one of his own, a timid pull of lips. While Bucky falls back asleep and the sun peeks weakly in the horizon, Steve makes them scrambled eggs and Natasha pours coffee into the mugs. They chose to ignore the already fading bruises on the side of Steve's neck, even though they are still plenty visible. He's glad for it, because he wouldn't have an explanation to give for it, for this impulse he suddenly has for Bucky, the desperate need he felt to touch the scars in his thigh and slide his hand up to where Bucky was already responding to his wandering hands. He drinks the coffee, explains to Natasha how Bucky showed up first, and she listens to him carefully, glancing at Bruce occasionally, her expression now open. Understanding. They chat quietly until Bucky sits up in the sofa, and Steve gives him a cup of coffee, squeezing his hands. From the corner of his eye, Steve sees the look Natasha and Banner exchange, as if they didn't connect the bruises on his neck to Bucky's presence before, as they certainly do now.

They leave once Steve takes Bucky's temperature again, the streets below already awake and roaring with car engines, people walking and talking on their phones, the occasional motorcycle. The little digital screen shows 98.6, he's warm and asleep, and Steve kisses his temple, ruffle his impossibly soft hair between his fingers. He's sitting beside Bucky, on the armrest of the sofa, and Bucky's hand tugs him closer, a mere flick of his fingers but Steve doesn't miss its subtlety and complies. Bucky nestles up in his arms, against his chest while he falls back asleep, breath even and peaceful. Steve stares out to the window, he hopes Bucky will be there still when he wakes up. It's been two nights he doesn't sleep at all, and soon his mind is drifting, from the pale glow of the sun outside to scattered and happy dreams of when he was younger. Bucky's with him, coloring his memory, and they are oblivious. Peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very sorry about how long this has taken me, and that i still won't finish it in this chapter. decided to write more, probably because i actually like this work of mine.  
> this chapter was beta read by my [girlfriend](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lokincest), and i'd like to thank her very much for it. ♥  
> updates will be worked on very very hard, promise!

**Author's Note:**

> i will try to do weekly updates, but as a college student, i unfortunately can't promise anything. thank you for reading, and please drop kudos or a comment if you'd like, they're all very very welcomed.


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